Work Text:
“Close our eyes— no, no, play major,” said George, sliding his fingers quickly over his guitar to mute the strings.
“That’s all I’ve been playing,” said John.
Paul chuckled and moved his fingers into position on his Hofner, trying to suss out a bassline to accompany whatever the dueling guitarists were doing. Yet another day in the studio working on another record with the lads. Something hung in the air during these sessions; they all knew it was gonna be a good one.
It was George’s song, this one: Think For Yourself . Paul thought it a nice number. Seeking to contribute, he said, “But that chord, play that aga—”
George let out a ridiculous noise and noodled foolishly on his guitar, sending John and Paul into a fit of giggles. At this rate, the session was going to devolve into something more comedic than musical. But that was typical.
Though it was all a great laugh, Paul knew George was quickly growing weary of trying to reel in Lennon-McCartney to work on his song. Sorry George , he thought, but not really sorry. He couldn’t be in a room with John without doing some sort of bit. He noticed John’s eyes falling on him even more than usual, which was saying something. Fucking John. He must want something , Paul thought. Ringo watched the three of them and laughed along quietly, all the while attentive on the kit and trustier than any metronome.
George Martin’s posh voice came through the control room into the studio. “Boys, you realize tape costs you by the foot, right?”
“Costs EMI, you mean,” John grinned.
“Right, well perhaps we should leave this one here for now,” Harrison said while he put down his guitar, a twinge of irritability in his Scouse drawl.
The session over, the lads dispersed. “See ya,” said George and Ringo as they left the studio, off on some double date with Pattie and Maureen they had planned before. John grinned and waved at them while Paul fussed about with his front coat pocket for a ciggy. He picked one out and fretted with his lighter, swearing under his breath until he finally got his ciggy lit.
“See you’ve quit smoking, Paulie,” John said wryly. He approached Paul and held out an expectant hand.
“Aye, for me health. ‘M watching me figure, you see,” Paul crooned in a tarty voice, batting his eyelashes mockingly. He grabbed and lit another ciggy, handing it to him.
“Aye,” John took a long drag and smiled, giving him a not-so-subtle look over. “No need, I’m watching it for ye.”
Paul flushed. Cheeky bastard . He laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “Sod off, yeah?” He couldn’t really hide that he enjoyed this sort of banter.
John laughed, rubbing his side. “Oi—got any plans right now, Macca?”
“Was going to the moon actually. Difficult to cancel, y’know,” Paul smirked.
“Pity. Well, look what Ritchie’s given me,” John went back to his chair and produced a small polaroid camera. “Gear, huh? I’m stoked to try it out, me very own camera! Figured you could bring that one Mike gave you a while ago and we could go shooting. Maybe get something for the album.” John looked at him eagerly. He really was excited about that little thing. Ringo was always a great gift-giver. “Course, the moon sounds nice.”
He couldn’t say no to spending some extra time with John, especially with him staring at him with those pleading eyes. For the whole bloody session, really. Not like he had any other plans today. “I’ll reschedule it. Ought to drop by the house to pick up the camera though.”
John beamed at him; he really was in some sort of mood. “Right, I’ll follow to Cavendish then and we’ll ride together from there, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Paul smiled. He ushered John out of the studio, both of them bidding farewell to George Martin, Neil, Mal, and the engineers on their way out. Always a lot hanging 'round us. S’nice to get some air, really.
The mild autumn air hit their warm cheeks with a gentle shock when they got out onto the street. Paul’s home on Cavendish was only about an eight minute walk from EMI, so with one particularly big huff of his cigarette, he braced the breeze and walked down the steps onto the sidewalk, John in tow.
“Say,” Paul said as they walked beside each other, “Where’s it you wanna go anyway? Regent’s?”
“Nah,” John exhaled. His breath hung stark and pale in the air. “Too busy ‘round this time. And the flowers, too prim and proper. All neat in rows. Lousy.”
“Harsh, eh? I think it’s nice.”
“Well yeah, but it doesn't fit the record, y'know? For the pictures I mean. I’m thinking something more wildish.”
Paul cocked an eyebrow at him. He knew what he really wanted was some one-on-one time. As if they didn’t spend enough time together already. Well, not as often just the two of us, as of late. Though maybe he really did have a point about the landscaping. “Right, well I know some place we can go. Little field, near Regent’s actually. I saw some flowers growing there the other day. Wild enough for ye?” he smirked.
John smiled and nodded at him. In a few more steps, they arrived at 7 Cavendish Avenue. The bi-colored building stood before them, the tree in front dressed in red and orange leaves. They both stamped out their ciggies on the tiled pathway, then Paul went inside quickly to fetch his own polaroid. When he came outside, John was already waiting by the car.
Paul held his camera above his head, grinning. “Let’s shoot some flowers, eh?”
The ride to the field was mostly uneventful, the two of them sitting in companionable silence as Paul drove. John was busy fiddling with his new-fangled camera, trying to figure out how exactly it worked, taking some practice shots in the car, and storing the photographs in a small bag Paul had brought from the house for that purpose.
As he drove, he thought about his bandmate sitting next to him. His bandmate, friend, best friend, a little more. A lot more . He’d practically grown up with him, and yet in all the time he’d known him he was still just as predictably unpredictable. He’d known John would have some daft idea at the session, the way he’d been ogling him the whole time, but photographing flowers? If only Hamburg John could see the softie he’d become. ’Course, John always had that soft side, even as a Ted. That’s part of why he had been drawn to him in the first place.
He was a complicated sort, was John. There always was sort of two sides to him, trying to live in harmony at once. Usually, one would overtake the other at any given moment, and you couldn’t really tell which one would come out next. One minute, they could be barking about chords on a song, and the next John would slip his glasses down to his nose, raise his bushy brows, and say “It’s only me.” Then, he’d put them right back up. That’s just the sort of thing he’d do. Two Johns.
It seemed that right now he had gotten a hold of the one with his glasses down, wanting to go frolic in a field of flowers. He wondered if John knew how tarty his idea sounded. It didn’t really matter; he was happy to oblige him. He noticed just now that John had remembered to bring his glasses, so that he could actually see and take some decent pictures. He smiled softly; clearly John had planned for this before the session.
Paul pulled off the road and parked onto the grass. “Here we are,” he said as he got out of his car. John fumbled with the door for a second, carrying both cameras and the bag for the pictures at once.
It was an isolated sort of place, near Regent’s Park but not too near. The occasional swoosh of passing cars could be heard on the otherwise empty and still road. The field was full of tall grass and a few different sorts of colorful flowers, with birds and butterflies flitting all throughout the brush. The sky was bright and cloudless, the glare of the sun sometimes interrupted by passing birds. It seemed unreal that such a pretty little patch could exist in autumn in London, but there it was right in front of them.
“Right,” said John, handing Paul his camera and grinning at him warmly.
“Any particular ideas?” Paul asked.
“Not at the moment. Let’s just see what happens.”
“Let’s.”
They set off on their own paths, searching for some interesting subject in the field that could inspire their album cover. Paul pushed aside some of the grass, finding a little orange ladybug on one of the yellow flowers. He set to framing his shot, trying to remember tips he’d heard from Mike and Ringo.
After taking a few shots and stuffing them into his pocket, he looked around to see what John was doing. It seemed he was more interested in the flowers than the insects, going around and taking pictures of all the different colored ones, sometimes on their own and sometimes in groups. Paul smiled fondly at his friend, enjoying seeing him doing something so light-hearted. At that moment John looked over and smiled too, causing them both to flush and quickly turn away.
They’d been on and off with each other since… since forever, really . It started as just a bit of fooling around between lads, nothing too serious. But Paul quickly realized that for John, it was pretty serious. He’d thought it hadn’t been much for himself, but his overwhelming jealousy over Stu in Hamburg made him realize that it was more serious for him than even he thought. In the end, John had chosen him. Over Stu, over Brian, and even over Cyn, in a way. Him. And God, did that make him reel.
Paul shook his head, as if physically shaking it would remove his thoughts. He set to finding another subject and came across a little black beetle with long bead-like antennae, contentedly munching on a thistle. He trained his camera onto it, focusing and framing his shot. Suddenly, a light blue flower came into view on his camera, causing the beetle to fly away.
He looked up to see John standing above him, holding the flower down to his face. His auburn hair ruffled in the breeze, turned red around the edges from the backlight of the sun. His black rimmed glasses (his “Buddy Holly” ones) framed his eyes, which were squinted from the massive grin he had on his face. That wild grin that was so John and could mean any number of things. Could mean he was taking the piss, or about to go off his head, or make a cruel joke, or flirt. This time, it seemed more predictable than usual.
“For you, Macca,” he said through his grin, rather shyly.
Paul blushed, for once at a loss for words. “Thanks,” he mustered sheepishly. He smiled and nodded, accepting the flower. He wasn’t sure why they were both being so timid about this, they’d already practically seen each other in every which way possible. Maybe it’s just this place that’s messing with us. It’s… romantic, like Paris . Paul gestured for John to hand him the bag for the photographs, so he could put in the ones he took before of the ladybug. “Ruined me shot, y’know?”
John chuckled and knelt down to meet Paul’s gaze. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Paul smiled at him and looked around, searching for a flower to give to him. His eyes went back to the little purple thistle the beetle had been chewing on. He plucked it and showed it to John, grinning. Feeling bold, he reached out to smooth some of John’s hair behind his left ear and placed the thistle between it and his glasses. “’Ere,” he murmured.
John was smiling from ear to ear, cheeks completely flushed red. “Gone soft, have ye?”
“Look who’s talking,” Paul smirked. “Now you look like a real nance.”
“Oi—” John giggled and elbowed him softly in the shoulder. “And who’s fault is that?”
They laughed quietly and settled down into the grass together, sitting with legs crossed. “Lemme see your pictures,” said John. Paul obliged, pulling them out of the bag.
John perused them with interest, flipping through them. “Ye like bugs, eh?”
Paul shrugged, “They’re neat. Lemme see yours then.” John’s were all of the flowers, predictably. He nodded in approval at each one.
“So many different sorts in this field,” John commented. “I wonder why. Seems sort of magical.” Oh, he’s picked up on it too, ‘course he has.
Paul bowed and raised his palms above his head. “The work of the Lord.”
That was sure to send John into a fit, and it did. As he was laughing, he flinched suddenly, “Ow!” He rubbed at the side of his face, where there was now a little red mark from the spines of the thistle tucked behind his ear. “Ye had to pick one that has pricks?”
Paul chuckled, “Sorry, love. Ought to find you a better one then.” He could see the competitive glint in John’s eye before he quickly started up, committed to out-do Paul in this new contest. As he always is .
The cameras and bag were left on the grass as the two scoured the field for pretty flowers, a pair of lovesick vultures. In each of their off hands, a wild bouquet was growing with each addition. Paul’s attention was captured by a large white flower, which had grown a bit aways from the rest of its kind. Eventually, they returned to their equipment and sat down again to show each other what they had collected.
John started eagerly, “This one’s yellow, like the sun, and this one’s blue, like the sea, an—”
“Oi, what do the sun and sea have to do with each other?”
“Well, they’re pretty y’know. Like you, Paulie.” He wasn’t sure if it was possible for John to grin any wider.
“Soft git!” Paul teased, shoving him gingerly in the chest.
“Christ! Why’d ye keep poking and prodding me?” John exclaimed in mock outrage.
“You’re daft,” Paul muttered, sifting through his own collection. “I think this one would be nice on ye.” He picked out the white flower, and tucked it behind John’s ear, in place of the prickly thistle. He stared at him for a bit, taking in just how beautiful his mate was: his light brown eyes, his soft lashes, his aquiline nose, his thick brows, his square jaw. Christ. The field must have been turning them both mad. It’d been a while since they’d had a moment this intimate, with how busy they were with the film earlier this year, then the tour, and now the record. He felt that he was bursting for him. For John.
Without a word, Paul closed his eyes and pressed his lips against John's. He felt his surprise as John's breath hitched slightly before he pressed against him too, placing a hand on the small of his back. The warmth of the sun hanging lazily in the sky was no match for the warmth growing in his stomach. He pulled away after a while and pressed their foreheads together, sweaty locks of auburn and black tangling together as one. He gently cupped John's smiling red face and smiled back at him warmly.
"Christ, Macca," John muttered breathlessly. His eyes darted over him, appreciating him. Worshiping him. "You're really something, y'know?"
Before Paul could answer, John had flipped him onto his back. The long blades of grass spread around him like a bed of straw, with the ones out of reach standing tall and shading them. Hiding them. He hovered over him, beaming, and Paul tangled his hair between his fingers.
He looked just like Forthlin Road John, Mendips John, Hamburg John, Paris John. His John. The one that needed him. He’d gotten a hold of him this afternoon; flower-field-frolicking, glasses-wearing, grinning-above-him John. Paul smirked and brought him down into another kiss.
John, being lazy as he was, didn’t get up after it. They laid there quietly, hidden in the tall grass and lit by the languid sun. Paul petting John’s hair, slightly mussed from the breeze, and John resting his head in the crook of Paul’s neck. He fit perfectly as if he belonged there. He does .
John shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and sighed deeply.
Paul made a small questioning sound in his throat, “Mm?”
“I miss moments like this more than anything,” said John.
He’s got to drop one like that. Predictably unpredictable John. When he got all reminiscing like this, things could turn quickly. Paul swallowed. “Aye, me too.”
John lifted his head and stared at him. “I’m dead serious, Macca.”
Christ. He didn’t know what to say, he just blinked at him.
“Paulie,” John got up and kneeled in front of him, taking his hands in his own and sitting him up. He had that wild look in his eyes, that he was about to say something daft.
“Let’s run away again. To Paris. Just us.”
Daft was an understatement. He shook his head slightly, “John…”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I do, bu–”
“I think about it all the time, y’know. All the time. Do you?”
Not even five minutes ago, he had thought about Paris. ‘Course he thought about it all the time. How could I ever forget? Yet, his tongue was in knots. “‘Course,” he managed weakly.
The wildness in John’s eyes had turned to desperation. His eyebrows were contorted in anticipation. As the moment stretched, the desperation was becoming anger. Shit. That familiar anger of his. A reminder that although you could bring John along to a flower field, you had to bring along both of them.
A memory came to him: one of John in a particular moment of cruelty, with his large eyebrows drawn down over his wide eyes. "I don't understand how you can just sit there, with your mother being dead," he spat. "If it were mine, I'd have gone off my head."
When Julia died, John had gone off his head.
He’d spent his days and nights in dingy bars, trying to drink his pain away. But with every bottle emptied, he only became angrier. At everyone, at the world, at his mum, at himself. He lashed out at nearly everyone like a cornered animal, getting into fights everywhere he went. No one could get through to him for a long while. When he wasn’t out, he was lying in his bed at Mendips. His guitar was gathering dust in the corner of the room. Paul came over several times, usually shooed away by Mimi. When he could get past the front door, he’d busy himself with random things around the house. Tried to help Mimi with chores, if she’d allow him, and he’d tidy up John’s room as he lay in bed. Sometimes he’d sit next to him and play his guitar quietly. Sometimes he’d just sit there and smoke. Sometimes he’d run his fingers through his auburn hair, or hold his hand and gently thumb over his split red knuckles. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.
In a way, it seemed that he was kicking and screaming and raging for the both of them. In a way, Paul was grateful for it. He'd never tell him that. He'd never tell him that their worlds were so intertwined, that sometimes when he thought of his own mother he'd picture red hair. Maybe he should be frightened that his memory was slipping so, but he wasn't. It felt that it was meant to be that way.
Paul shook his head, snapping back to reality. “We can’t,” he muttered. “We can’t just run off like that.”
John let go of his hands. “Why?” he asked dryly.
He could hardly stand to look into his eyes. Those damned eyes of his. Blind as they were, they could see into him so clearly. “We’ve got the record to do, and another film and—”
“Fuck all that. I’d drop it all.”
“We’re contracted.”
“Fuck the contract.”
“And George, and Rings, and Cyn, and Jules?”
That had wounded him. John blinked and slumped back down into the grass, staring blankly in front of him. For a few seconds, they didn’t speak. Shit . Paul knew he had to say something. He opened his mouth and—
“He likes you better, y’know,” John interrupted.
“What?”
“Jules. He likes you better than me. He wishes you were his dad.”
Paul swallowed. “Don’t be daft. He’s two years old.”
“I can still tell.” John tangled a blade of grass around his fingers. “He smiles more when you hold him.”
Paul just shook his head softly. A breeze floated by, ruffling their mop tops for a split second. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “They need you, y’know. You can’t be running away.”
“As if I’m not away enough already, on tour and recording and on tour and recording,” John scoffed. “How’d I get into a position where people need me, anyway? That’s the daftest part.”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Paul said, trying to lighten him up. He lifted a hand to his cheek and turned his face towards him, meeting his gaze. “I need you.” He could see tears starting to well up in his eyes. He cupped his face in his hands and gently thumbed away some of his fringe from his eyes. “And I’m right here, always. We don’t need to run away.”
John fell into him, hugging him hard and knocking the wind out of him. Paul huffed at the suddenness of it, but smiled and wrapped his arms around him.
“It’s good to touch,” John muttered.
“Yeah. It is.” It’s good to touch. It echoed in his head. He closed his eyes and started to draw lazy circles on John’s back. “Y’know, love, we could just have a planned vacation.”
John choked out a small laugh, burying his face into Paul’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”
Paul smiled and nodded lazily. Hidden in the tall grass, they stayed embraced for what seemed like an eternity. He held both Johns at once in his arms.